


you remember the doctor very well

by the_gaysian_agenda



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Spencer Reid, Growing Up, Spencer Reid Centric, Spencer Reid Leaves The BAU, Spencer Reid Not Part of the BAU, he goes to london and gets arrested then is recruited by mi6 lol, not 2nd pov i promise just the intro, this is sad! i am sad! i am so sad!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_gaysian_agenda/pseuds/the_gaysian_agenda
Summary: when they are all gone, when your family is off with their families, you leave Doctor Reid behind, behind the doors to the bullpen of the BAU.by the end of the day, you are a certified, paper-bearing, card-carrying British citizen serving Her Majesty the Queen with MI6.reid becomes a double-oh under MI6 and reflects a lot





	1. its uhhh hh its fucking uhhh beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this starts in kind of second perspective etc blah blah whatever BUT before you go "what the fuck is this wattpad headass shit" I PROMISE it gets better, this is just the intro i'm gonna be looking at reid through other characters' eyes later on and we r gonna have some HUMOR in it!!! its gonna be SUPER FUNNY!!

You remember Doctor Spencer Reid very well.

He was laughably young, baby-faced and hair-gelled, a walking talking dictionary.

His biggest worry, next to his grueling job of a madman-hunter, was his mother’s mind.

Everyone used to say, when he was even littler, that he had his mother’s mind.

_Spencer, you have your mother's mind._

(Because if he didn’t, he would have to had his father's.)

Spencer, when he was littler, had seen only the blood on his knees after falling down the stairs, and the blood on the shirt his father had burned in the green, green grass of their backyard. Green grass in a desert. A desert surrounded by neon lights and stars.

Spencer, when he’s a little older, sees blood and stars in a Las Vegas locker room.

Doctor Spencer Reid, when he’s a bit older than that, has the time of his life on a plane to certain madness with his best friends, his best family. He has the best time of his life with a chess set and a deck of cards and balancing a coffee tray that makes at least three people stop him thinking he’s an intern on a coffee run.

Doctor Reid, when he’s a lot older, walks away from three mens’ corpses. One man’s corpse. He walks under the yellow tape and over the damp fall leaves with two bottles in his pocket.

After that, he’s not quite as little.

He gets a little older after Gideon, then Emily, then Morgan, then Hotch. He gets a little older with every death and every departure.

And then, Doctor Reid snaps.

He becomes the madman-hunted, chased by the madman-hunters.

He goes to jail, and if he thought he got older in that graveyard with the madman, the angel, and the son, he ages like spoilt milk— his date is long past due, and he walks through the doors of his cell knowing this full well.

And so Doctor Reid continues on, even when his team confronts him, consoles him about his PTSS. Doctor Reid goes on, watching his team rise and fall around him, until he can’t quite remember a time before the FBI. Can’t quite remember, even with his picture-perfect memory, his wonder-boy brain. Nothing before his unit seems quite real, the beatings of his childhood burning onto the CD of someone else’s home movie.

When it is only Doctor Reid that is left of his team, surrounded by fresh-faced agents that profile his ex-addiction and ask him _“what happened?”_ and _“how are you still here?”_ and agents that are wrinkled and weathered, seeming to only work for dues— when JJ is gone, after Rossi and Tara and Alvez and Simmons and Garcia and Emily, the same way that Hotch and Morgan are gone, you leave, too.

You leave Doctor Reid behind, behind the doors to the bullpen of the BAU.

You’re a year older and if you look a bit under a year back, you think that by moving to London, maybe you were chasing Emily. Maybe, between missing your oldest friends and needing nothing more than to leave what reminded you of the stint of your life, you chose London as an escape and a connection. A nostalgic and nightmare past.

In many years, you’ll look back through the catalog of your life and realize you never felt quite as alive as the days spent huddled around a round table or the transparent whiteboard.

You’re a year older and fresh to London when you start to get bored. You’ve finished your doctorate programs in psychology, sociology, and criminology, leaving you with six PhDs and too much time to kill. You’ve tried it all— it seems that poetry wasn’t up your alley after all, and a stint as a mathematician leaves you antsy. Antsy enough to where you find yourself falling back into old habits, until you know the ins and out of every murder, white-collar crime, attempted homicide, and petty burglary in the UK.

The UK doesn’t have a ViCAP you can access, and you don’t have the technical skills to even find out if the UK has a database like ViCAP at all. So you start visiting crime scenes, cases that have gone cold.

You know it’s suspicious behavior— _“killers tend to revisit the crime scene to relive the murder”,_ you said countless times in another life. You didn’t kill anyone, not here, not illegally.

You’d rather die than admit it, but you get off. You get off analyzing and theorizing and geo-profiling, you get off in the heady rush of perfect statistics and facts falling into place, taking steps forwards after weeks on months on years of frustration.

At first, you’re careful. You come in a different disguise, just walking past the scene— a little old man, walking slowly enough to memorize every angle. But you start getting lazy as your stack of Vonnegut gets smaller, and soon, to your unsurprise, you are called in by the local police detective over a case— the murder of three men using a weapon no one can identify.

They question you, and it’s not the first time you’ve been in this room, in this chair, on this side of the desk. You’re interrogated by a young thing, tall and thin with wild, dark hair. But it doesn’t make you sad, like you thought it would. You’re _excited_ , mind racing and neurotransmitters firing. And so you can’t help it if you walk them through the case a little, if you present the profile and explicate the weapon in a way you haven’t since it was Doctor Spencer Reid and his merry band of supervisory special agents.

And so you can’t even pretend to be surprised when you are stopped outside the door to your flat by four burly British men wearing kevlar over their badges, and taken in for questioning.

They want to know who you are.

You take a second too long.

_“Is that relevant?”_

They pause, purse their lips. What kind of shady secrets could you be hiding, they wonder. What kind of past that makes you want to hide your name?

And while they examine your driver’s license -an American license, you never bother with cars here, not that you drove much in America anyways- you take a sweet second to wish that you’d applied for an identity change when you were freshly departed from the FBI. You could’ve made a convincing appeal for witness protection, you know, especially after the countless envelopes that have found their way into your company mailbox with threatening messages and the deaths of victims in them.

But you didn’t, and you don’t really know why exactly you tried so hard to cling onto Spencer Reid, the infant. Maybe sentiment.

But now they know Doctor Spencer Reid’s name and they know his pedigree and they know his affiliations.

_“I’m here visiting.”_

It’s true. Doctor Spencer Reid doesn’t have British citizenship.

_“I just helped them a little.”_

_“It’s not illegal to visit a crime scene, sir.”_

You hope that despite how undeniably guilty the _it’s not illegal_ sounds, how it’s always sounded, they’ll make a special case for a mad-genius-former-FBI-affiliate.

_(you aren’t an agent, was never a supervisory special agent like the rest of your team)_

You just hope they overlook Doctor Reid’s history with a cell door.

And for a second, you think they do, you look into their lightly stubbled faces and their square jaws, set with determination to _make the world safer_ and the gleam in their young, hopeful eyes, and realize that these officers are luckier than you or your pile of degrees gathering dust in the back cupboard of a house-for-sale in Las Vegas will ever be. Or maybe ever were.

_Psychopathy is not necessarily biological, and genetics themselves can be influenced by one’s environment, psychopathy is the product of a million different forces and the same situation has a million different outcomes._

Doctor Reid is taken in for further questioning and made to wait.

And so you make sure to do anything except stare at the wall where you know the one-way mirror is. They’re standing out there, on the other side of the cell door, in their suits with their hard eyes and their fresh, young minds and endless ambition, probably explaining to whoever the in-office bureaucrats are that this is an interrogation technique, making the subject wait, alone.

Doctor Spencer Reid used to do that. Doctor Spencer Reid used to tell whoever would listen everything about anything, including interrogation techniques. So when a suit comes into the holding cell, you know everything that’s happening.

But too much, you’ve seen too much of what comes from lying, so you try something new: you tell as much truth as you can. As your mouth will let you.

You talk for over two hours, the distant hum of cameras in the back of your head making itself at home with the rest of the fog. It’s easily the most you’ve talked to another person, face-to-face, one-on-one, since you arrived in London. You take your pauses when they’re due, and you cooperate in answering their questions. _Look at me, I’m a model citizen, a silly American with his own closets and skeletons and dirty laundry, just like every other citizen, UK or US._

At the end of three hours, you are assessed as “not a threat” and allowed to go to your flat; you’ve never met your roommate, as you’re out all day and they’re out all night. But they keep to their side of the fridge and don’t dirty the bathroom, so it works out fine.

You don’t make eye contact with any of the people watching you on the tube back to the flat, or any of the cameras watching the people of the streets. Six doctorates, a criminal history, and a genetic disposition to general instability gets attention from people _up stairs._

It wouldn’t be the first time. Spencer Reid had no intentions to go FBI when he was earning his degrees. And you didn’t move to London trying to join any of the MI-whatevers, either.

But you get an email asking you to come back to that office, and you sit down in the chair across from some higher-up’s desk, the same interrogation chair, only this time padded and surrounded by bookshelves instead of one-way mirrors, and you repeat the same answer Spencer Reid had had, a lifetime ago. 

By the end of the day, you are a certified, paper-bearing, British citizen serving Her Majesty the Queen with MI6.

This time, you are an agent.

You wonder if it will be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise pinky swear not to abandon this like all of my other stuff im really into CM rn and will probably be for like the rest of the school year lol one of my final projects is on criminology and psych so 
> 
> uhhhhh reviews DO make we wanna write faster i will say that  
> no pressure tho no pressure love u all happy late thanksgiving!! 
> 
> also special note: the usage of doctor spencer reid vs spencer vs dr reid etc etc was VERY deliberate!!! yeah literary devices baby!!


	2. jonathan blackmore (im a relistu nerd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are BACK haha finals are OVER 
> 
> also i had a math quiz and i fucking FAILED it except for one question haha it was ALL WRONG
> 
> this is kind of short sorry its a transition i guess we'll get into the actual story in the next chapter lmao

The double-ohs of the MI6 are legend. They hide in the shadows where not even their own organization can hope to find them, they’re said to only show up at MI6’s desk out of loyalty and goodwill. Out of good nature. 

But they’re killers. They’re licensed as such. It’s a tad dramatic, the  _ license to kill _ , but there is no better explanation. They’re the nation’s most deadly task force, but they work alone. 

They’re notoriously cool-headed, unflinching at gore and death; they  _ thrive _ . They cause it, they spin it around their pinky fingers the way coy women do their wedding rings. 

It sounds exciting and romantic. But no one in their right mind falls for one. They’re snakes and lynxes, beautiful smiles and razor-sharp eyes, they’re the most beautiful madness you’ll ever meet. Anyone would be best off with Kenny from customer service. He’s not gorgeous but he’s cute, and he has a little Yorkie named Skipper. And Kenny won’t off your drug-dealer brother who’s tied himself up in more than he can swallow, and pass it off as a heart attack. 

The double-ohs will slit your throat after sleeping in your bed, hack your files after you’ve powered the wi-fi down, kill a man during their five-minute smoke break and the cameras will never catch them. They’ll make a bomb out of your kitchen supplies and dye the kitchen with gray gunpowder and yellow cumin. 

First of the double-ohs is double-oh-one, the bombs master. Disarming or arming, warning or  _ killing.  _ He stays local— charming fellow, a total starbucks snob. He likes his espresso with vodka. 

Double-oh-two’s location is classified, along with her coffee order. To get clearance high enough to know how much cream she likes, you’d be better off running for a foreign presidency. You’d have a higher chance of getting in. 

Double-oh-three is dead. You know, she told you herself, just last week when you ran into her for the first time since last New Year’s Eve, when she stopped by the office after a three-year-long mission. She offered you a candy cane. You took it. 

Double-oh-four’s hair is always greasy. It’s supposed to be a “style”, all slicked-back and shiny, but you think it looks dumb. You’ve told him such. He responded with the fifty-three hookups he’s had in the past three months. He has a mad ability for assorted martial arts; he might be the best at close-combat out of the double-ohs.

Double-oh-five knows more pressure points than you do, and that’s only because she keeps “finding new ones”. You argue that if you use enough force, almost anything becomes a pressure point. Nerves don’t matter when you’re being stabbed, anyways. But her targets always go down, always silent, and she’s never been so much as mentioned on foreign intelligence radio despite  _ foreign _ being her home ground. 

Double-oh-six is more trouble than he’s worth, more slippery than a slick snake. He’s flirty and loud and loves to fake an Australian accent— no one stops him, though, his jawline could probably topple nations if his expertise in biowarfare didn’t first. Not to mention, he sounds lovely in French.

Double-oh-seven is their eldest, and you’d be lying if you didn’t take a little peek into his file to confirm your suspicions; he’s truly and well ridden with bullet holes. He isn’t the fastest or the strongest or the youngest or the smartest, but he doesn’t lose.  _ Ever _ . You fear the day he does, nothing strikes as hard as a wounded animal. 

Double-oh-eight’s favorite disguise is a quiet bookworm. He’s too good at sneaking around for you to ever really relax, but the two of you have juggled each other’s lives between your hands too many times for you to not. You like his latest act, his new persona bounces theories about classical authors and axial ages with you like no one else.

Double-oh-nine is a mystery that you know too well. He’s easily half the size, or at least width, of almost every other agent, and looks a bit like he’d snap in half. But he’s too good at talking, good at weaving words around, using them and luring you in until he has you where he wants you— where you think you wanted to be. 

It takes you a second, of course, to take in these new faces. You’re a set of pinballs and MI6 is the machine, bouncing you off and hurling you into bouncers at rapid-fire pace. Debrief then board then depart then  _ hunt _ then board then arrive then report. 

You don’t mind the repetitive form,  _ there are people dying _ , it numbs you colder than any syringe could. 

One target down, another government to topple. All in a day’s work. 

— 

“Welcome back, by  _ god _ is it good to see you in one piece.” Q says to 009’s perfectly intact, if a bit scratched up, custom-built-and-designed Walther P99. “And you too, oh-nine.” He adds a moment later, glancing up at 009 for the first time.

009 quirks an eyebrow and snorts. “Thanks.”

“Have you been in for your post-op eval yet?” Q accepts 009’s other previously provided gear; an upgraded pocket knife, a lockpick set, various sharp objects, his earpiece and body cameras, a set of general supplies including but not limited to safety pins, zip ties, and a sachet of tea. “ _ God,  _ look at how  _ intact  _ this is,” Q examines 009’s comms units. “It’s  _ lovely.” _

“I don’t see why I have to go in. It was just recon.” 009 takes his right shoe off, picking a microphone-camera hybrid chip off of the inside of the leather tongue and handing it to Q.

“It would be a shame if a missed psych evaluation lead to some paperwork deeming you unfit to drive my new, freshly upgraded Aston Martin.” 009 groans, throwing his head back. “And I sure as hell don’t want to give it to 007, he’d wreck it in an hour.” Q does a quick inventory of 009’s gear— there’s something off. “Why do you still have all of your Walther’s ammo?”

009 grimaces. “I’ve told you, I don’t really like automatics.”

“Why not?” Q is genuinely curious— he wants to know what 009 thinks about the standard-issue gun. 

009 shrugs, fishing his own Smith and Wesson 65-3 revolver out of his bag and passing it over to Q. “Never liked them. Just a feeling.” He sounds tired, even if his tone is light, so Q lets it slide. This once.

“Alright, if you say so.” Q starts organizing the dirtied gear on one of his worktables. “Go do your eval, I need to equip 006 and 008 in ten minutes anyways.”

“Fine.” 009 huffs, and plucks his revolver off of Q’s table, tucking it back into his belt.

Q shakes his head as he watches agent double-oh-nine leave his workshop— that appendix carry of his is going to get his hipbone straight shot one day. 

\--

“If it isn’t the prettiest agent in our humble agency, oh-nine, welcome home!” Agent 006 greets 009 as he walks towards his desk in the bullpen. “Is that a gun in your pants or are you just excited to see me?”

“Trevelyan, are you seeing another woman? Behind my back?” Agent 008 comes up behind Alex, throwing an arm around his neck and slumping dramatically against him. “We all know our golden boy nine is too good for your sleazy arse. How many people have you slept with on the last five missions?” 008 hands 009 a hot coffee in a thin paper cup and he nods his thanks, testing a sip. The sugar is perfect, just the way he likes it. 

“Twelve, but at least I keep track.” 009 snorts, and at 006’s gesture, holds his coffee to 006’s lips to let him steal a sip. “Lord, darling, how do you keep that waistline of yours drinking pure sugar constantly?”

009 shrugs, taking his coffee back. “What can I say, I was a skinny kid.”

“Aren’t you American?” 006 quips.

“Wonders never do cease.” 008 snickers. “What, getting lax at the gym, Timothy?” He prods 006 in the waist, who just shimmies out of his grip.

“I could beat you up, I always could. I’d best you right now! Tell him for me, golden boy.” 009 rolls his eyes.

“Not that I don’t love this, but I’d rather not stay late filling out forms for a  _ recon _ job.” 006 and 008 freeze, and turn towards him.

“So.” 006 starts.

“We heard a bit about that.”

“Our little golden boy, seducing villains?” 006 throws an arm over 009, roughing up his hair. “By god how he’s grown! I am so proud of you, did you sleep with him?”

“No!” 009 squawks, trying to throw 006 off of him, but failing under 200 pounds of muscle. “Of course not! He was an  _ arms dealer! _ We were just talking!”

“Come on, that doesn’t mean you can’t have a bit of fun! He was a low-level,  _ hot _ arms dealer!” 006 jerks him around, and 009 really has to push him off this time— the other faculty trying to work around them are starting to get irritated.

“Shut up.” 009 grumbles. “I have a report to file.”

“Have fun, mate. We’re gonna go get drinks at nine tonight and this one’ll chase tail— it’ll be mad funny, if you’re in. We’re out for the next few weeks tomorrow, so might as well have fun before it’s all work no play.” 008 drags 006 in the direction Q’s workshop, and 009 files the invitation away in his brain, checking over his schedule. Maybe he’ll go. He hasn’t been doing anything except work lately, and the last few missions he’s gone on have been slow and frustrating, with no new significant leads. Maybe some time to relax is just what he needs. 

Agent Double-oh Nine sits down at his desk to do his paperwork.

No less than two hours later, when the sun has just passed noon and 009 has just finished his lunch break with another tall, over-sugared coffee, he gets paged with a new assignment.

He finds R -Ms. Moneypenny- waiting by his desk with a file.

“Welcome back, 009, it’s a shame to see you go so quickly.” She smiles, almost apologetically. Almost. But duty calls, they both know it too well. “We have a case. In the states.” 009 blinks. It’s not entirely unusual, the US gets into plenty of trouble, but British-American relations aren’t faring too well around now. 

“Did the US contact us?” 

Moneypenny frowns. “It’s undercover. M said you’d be best for it, didn’t tell me why. British former citizens are being killed along the East coast, they linked the deaths to a case that went cold six years ago. The brass is worried about the escalation. The media’s starting to call it a hate crime, they want the culprit as soon as possible.”  _ Interesting.  _

“Why do they need a double-oh?” It’s not arrogance that speaks, but plain fact. Double-ohs are usually placed into the field for extreme jobs in warzones and-slash-or hostile regions, not investigative work in semi-friendly territory. 

“You’ll have to ask someone higher-up.” She shrugs, handing him the file. “Good luck, 009. You’re to depart tomorrow, I’d get equipped before turning in for the night. Q will provide what you need.” 

009 purses his lips, American accent just barely leaking through learned London. 

“Lovely.” 

\--

“Welcome back.” Q doesn’t look up from his table, nose inches away from what 009 is sure is a very dangerous weapon. It’s a mess of odd black tubes and vaguely shaped like some sort of demented rocket launcher. 

“What’ve you got for me?” 009 sidles up to the table, craning a long neck over Q’s shoulder. 

“Careful, dangerous.” The Quartermaster slips around him, laying the odd machine on another worktable. 009 thinks for a second. He recognized one of the parts. 

“Biowarfare, Q? Sounds pretty dangerous.” Q’s lips twitch upwards. 

“Of course. That’s  _ only _ the point.” He disappears behind a table for a second, popping back up with a folder. “Here.” Q hands it 009, who opens the flap to examine its contents. “Inside you have all of your documents, passport, drivers license, etcetera etcetera. You’ve recently been asked to consult on this case as an investigative detective as a last action by officer Davies, who quit after being shot in the leg. He’s currently in the hospital under heavy medication, and I’ve made electronic receipts confirming the request. Call in to wardrobe after you leave Q-branch, alright?” 

009 nods. “Thanks. See you soon, Q.” He leaves Q to play with his nukeish weaponry, questions turning over in his head. 

\--

009 feels a sudden wave of dizziness catch him as he steps into the plane that will land him in Philadelphia International airport in approximately eight and a half hours. It’s not very crowded for a big international plane, but then, he can’t imagine that there are many people keen to get from London to Philadelphia on a Wednesday night. He swallows dryly, and remembers that aside from the not-entirely-appealing presence of his Q-branch issued earpiece, he is alone. 

If he wonders why he chose the career of a double-oh, the love-em-and-leave-em and the deadly lone wolves of MI6, he does it only in his dreams as he sleeps the hours away. 

When he wakes, as far as he’s concerned, the doubt is washed away under  _ CLASSIFIED  _ stamps and red tape. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!! fucking excited!! for the holidays!!!!!! 
> 
> also let me know if u guys have plot ideas, i have a basic outline but nothing that surprising i guess lol 
> 
> ITS ALMOST CHRISTMAS IM SO EXCITED
> 
> and for those of u that saw the art from my last update that i deleted, ill try drawing something again for this chapter but i've had it sitting around for a while and if i keep putting it off it might never get posted haha

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys if u were here earlier i actually just deleted the second chapter bc i hated it and wrote it all at like 2 am its too embarrassing to keep up so just forget it happened pls 
> 
> that said i am writing a better chapter 2!!!! im super excited!!!!!!!!!! keep ur eyes and asses READY


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